


Person of Interest Ficlets

by Nny



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Prison, Fluff, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Pop Culture, Post-injury, The Princess Bride quotes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-11
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-13 04:37:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5695060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nny/pseuds/Nny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every chapter is a different ficlet or snippet; the inspiration or prompt is reflected in the title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Television Was Called Books

“Of course you are welcome to leave at any time,” Finch says stiffly, and John reacts only by stretching his legs out a little further, slumping more fully into his chair, the long lean line of his body a careless sprawl from head to toe. Somehow the knowledge that he could still, at a moment’s notice, be a deadly force, manages to be simultaneously most reassuring and not a little annoying. Finch turns his attention back to his monitors, the rattling clatter of his keyboard filling the silence.

“I was just suggesting a little variety might be nice,” John says lightly after a moment, ostentatiously turning a page. “Don’t you ever get bored?”

“Never,” he says shortly, feeling not a little defensive and resenting it, resenting John for it.

“I’m not sure I’ve ever been someplace without a television before,” John comments idly.

“Well in my day,” Finch snaps, “television was called books.” The resulting laugh could be recognition of the reference, could be a reaction to the dig at his age; he knows enough to know that it is not intended cruelly, at least. “May I please focus on my work, Mr Reese?”

“As you wish,” John says. Finch spins his chair to look at him, startled; he hopes he isn’t reading too much into his smile.

 

(Three days later, John works out something about their latest number before he does. His smugness is palpable.

“Yes, Mr Reese,” Harold, _Harold_ now, says dryly. “You’re very smart. Shut up.”

John almost gives away his location for laughing.)


	2. Have Fun Storming the Castle

“Oh no, Mr Reese, you won’t be needing that.”

John looked up, one eyebrow incredulously quirked even as he stopped buckling on the ankle holster, automatically obedient.

“I won’t?”

“You really won’t.”

Leaving his weapon on the end table John stood, carelessly twitching his pants leg back into place. Finch was seated in front of the monitors as usual, although his posture was less typical; leaning back a little, his fingers laced over his stomach. As relaxation went, it was limited - Finch’s feet were still placed exactly flat on the floor, his no doubt astronomically expensive ergonomic chair supporting him rigidly upright. Still, it was unfamiliar, and John squinted thoughtfully at the screens.

“Am I missing something?”

“Inevitably,” Finch said casually, and Reese snorted out a laugh that had Finch flushing gently across his cheekbones.

“Oh, I am sorry,” he said, visibly discomfited, “I meant no insult of course, merely that - in the grand scheme - in comparison to -”

“It’s all right, Finch,” John said, circling to stand beside the monitors, saving the straining of Finch’s neck. “I guess in comparison to your machine everyone is blind. Lucky I’ve got you.”

The moment hung in the air for longer than it ought to. John took pity on Finch’s twitching fingers.

“So what’s changed, Finch?”

“Nothing that I’ve seen.”

“So I’m still trying to get inside a building with armed security -”

“Practically a private army,” Finch interjected.

“- physical barriers -”

“It is rather a fortress, yes.”

“- and the best computer security that money can buy.”

“Fortunately, Mr Reese, money can’t buy nearly so good as me. Provided I can manage a few minutes in which my activities are unobserved…”

“So what you’re saying is, we need a distraction. Any ideas, Finch?”

The expression on his face wasn’t one John had seen before and his eyes flickered across it, taking it in, entranced. This was not a Finch he’d seen before; this was not a Finch he’d thought still existed. He could picture the Harold of MIT, maybe, wearing an expression like this, before the twin weights of injury and loss (and the guilt, of course, the endless background static of guilt) had worn and dragged and pressed him into the man he was now.

His blue eyes were bright behind the heavy frames of his glasses, his eyebrows arched a little in amusement or daring. He looked years younger, and the small smile that grew as John watched into something _wicked_ had John helplessly, hopelessly caught.

“Well, Mr Reese,” Finch said, warm laughter in his voice, (and the curve-tight line of his lower lip, which made John want to _bite_ ), “I rather thought we’d set you on fire.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Princess Bride quotes maaaay have become a thing...


	3. Mostly Dead All Day

John wakes to crisp sheets and the gentle familiar beep of machinery. On reflection, things could be worse.

It says a lot about his life, maybe, that he has a set routine for waking from unconsciousness; it says a little more that the first thing on the list is never, ever to let them know you’re awake.

He processes.

The smell of clean linens is too expensive to be institutional, and the gentle warmth from the sun is on his left; the library, then, rather than the more medically equipped of Finch’s safe houses. It’s a relief, suggests he’s been out less than twenty four hours. That he’s been entrusted, for the moment, to Shaw’s ministrations, rather than any of the number of doctors Finch has managed to rescue, or blackmail, or bribe.

The unconsciousness he’s going to attribute to the fierce way his head is pounding, localised rather than diffuse; that and the deep down ache as he breathes all down his right side, he’s thinking an explosion. Something small. Something that shed enough parts to explain the faint pulling sting in his cheek, the bruises he can feel blossoming down his arm, whatever it was that was propelled into his head.

(It doesn’t explain the gentle weight tethering his left hand. He’s still processing.)

Safe, convinced, reassured by the gently warm scent of green tea, John opens his eyes and only excellent training prevents him from lurching backwards, injuring himself further. He settles instead for a quick breath, a glower at Shaw, who’s leaning over the bed with her face six inches from his.

“Ha,” she says. “Knew you were faking.”

“I wasn’t faking,” he says, a little pissed, and she glances over his head at the softly ticking clock on the wall.

“Thirty seven seconds,” she argues, soft-voiced, “you were.” She takes a huge bite of the protein bar in her hand and grins, lopsided. “Called it.”

“Bully for you,” John says. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, working?”

“Some of us didn’t swoon like a wilting flower,” Shaw says. (If John has to lock up his arsenal, Finch should hide the damned poetry.) “Bad guys vanquished, good guys triumph, number gets to continue being a scumbag sleazeball in pastures new.”

John shifts, finally processes (admits to) the gentle weighted pressure against his left hand. Harold’s snoring faintly, propped awkwardly in the rigid chair by the bed.

“Don’t pester him,” Shaw says, uncharacteristically fond. “He’s had a hard day.”

John gestures - _he’s_ had? - and Shaw just quirks an eyebrow in response, which - given the way Harold’s fingers twitch and tighten when John shifts, given the frown lines that sleep hasn’t managed to clear from his face - is possibly fair.

John settles his weight back against the pillows, lets his eyelids droop a little, in shifting tightens his fingers and secures his hold.

“Faking it,” Shaw murmurs, sing-song, and John lets his lips curl into a small smile. Give him a break; he’s been mostly dead all day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have ideas for at least three more Princess Bride quotes. What the hell, man, what the hell.


	4. I Do Not Think It Means What You Think It Means

“And of course my acquaintance, John Wiley.” Finch’s dismissive sideways gesture was perfect for the character he’d adopted, for the way they wanted to play this. John slid into place just behind Finch’s right shoulder, slowing his pace so he could allow the other man to take the lead, wending his way through the well-dressed crowd after their number.

“Acquaintance?” He murmured, barely loud enough for Finch to register.

“Now is not the time to propose changes to the plan, Mr Reese,” Finch hissed back.

“No,” he agreed. That hadn’t been quite what he meant. (He wasn’t entirely sure why it grated.)

*

“He’s perfectly healthy,” the vet said, “I wouldn’t worry.”

“Worry is such a _strong_ word,” John said, an amused undercurrent in his voice.

“Well if you wouldn’t insist on feeding him table scraps…”

“I wouldn’t have to if you didn’t get caught up in your computers and forget to feed him,” John said sweetly. The vet smiled, charmed.

“How long have you two -” he gestured between them.

Finch blanched.

“Oh no,” he said, and John was a little annoyed at the hurry of his reply. “We’re - acquaintances.”

“Friends,” John said, firmly; he didn’t miss Finch’s small, startled noise in response.

*

Finch shifted anxiously on his feet.

“Shouldn’t we give her - ?” He turned to Shaw. “Do you need a tour?”

John intercepted Shaw’s rolled eyes with a grin.

“Bedroom,” he said, gesturing quickly, “kitchen, the rest I’m sure you can work out.”

“Yes,” Finch said, bouncing the keys on his palm for a moment before decisively holding them out. John eased a little closer, rested his palm gently against the base of his back; giving out details of his safe houses was a big thing, for Finch, let alone giving one away.

“Thanks,” Shaw said, with an air of gravity that couldn’t be genuine.

“Obviously the security is -” Finch gestured vaguely - _absurd_ , John took it to mean, _overprotective, the best that money can buy_. “And I’d ask that you -”  
He made a face and John pressed his hand a little closer against him. They’d talked about this.

“Obviously be sparing with who you share contact details with,” Finch said hurriedly, “but of course you can invite acquaintances to stay.”

Shaw gave John a flat look.

“He means you can have boys over,” John said. Shaw raised an eyebrow. “Or girls,” he added, and she raised the other. “Or… both?” She bounced her eyebrows, a wicked smile forming.

“Good job,” Reese whispered to Finch, as they were leaving. He’d meant to be a little more mocking; the gentle wash of color in Finch’s cheeks, the tiny smile suggested he might have failed.

*

“We got him, Finch,” John said, shifting his weight a little so his knee pressed exactly into the most painful part of their number’s lower back.

“Excellent work Mr Reese, Ms Shaw. We can leave the police, I think, to deal with Mr Rowse’s acquaintances.”

“No one you’ve seen in a ball-gag should be called an acquaintance,” Shaw said flatly. John made a noise of disagreement.

“I don’t know,” he said, “I’m not sure I’d call Lionel a friend.”

“Yeah,” Fusco cut in, “don’t think I didn’t hear that, wise guy.”

There was a gentle breath in John’s ear, soft and staticky and barely audible. He thought it might count as a laugh.

*

“Question my methods all you like, Mr Reese,” Finch said, the color high in his cheeks. “In any other world you and I might part as indifferent acquaintances, but the machine -”

He halted, mid-sentence. John wasn’t sure quite when he’d got so close.

“Acquaintances?” he said. His hand settled itself on Finch’s side without conscious thought, and John inched closer still, ducking his head so he could meet Finch’s darkened eyes. They fluttered shut when John bent his neck, nosed gently at the softly curving line of Finch’s jaw.

“You keep using that word,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't even on the list! XD


	5. My Way's Not Very Sportsmanlike

Harold knows, he _knows_ , that someday he’s going to make good.  


It’s not even arrogance. Arrogance, he’s always thought, is unfounded, is bloated, is _showy_. Harold’s not arrogant, he’s _certain_ , sure in his abilities and his understanding, and sure that the world is changing to make a place for him. His time is coming.  


And if it happens that the intervening time - the time between their time and his - is occasionally spent bleeding, sprawled out among his books and the remains of his notes on the rocky ground behind the sports hall, no one ever said that genius was easy. No one ever seemed to say anything but the opposite.  


He gathers the tatters of his notes and his dignity and sits back on his heels, pushing everything into his bag save a sheet of fibrous notepaper that’s been folded and erased and folded again and has still led precisely nowhere. That, he folds up and crams beneath his nose to catch the flood of red.  


The sun is spectacularly sinking. There are advantages to whole worlds of nothing, and one of them’s the space that the nothing leaves for the sun to sink into; no buildings or industry or prospects to interrupt the sunlight’s perfect red-gold flood as it melts into the distant fields. The parking lot’s empty, the slowly approaching night holding nothing but stillness within it; only mad dogs and science nerds go out in the evening sun.  


So the shadow that falls across him is doubly unwelcome, and Harold ignores it until he can stand again, pull himself up to his full height that’s already falling behind.  


“They won’t bother you again.”  


It’s the new kid, his voice flat and husky and weirdly regionless. Some day machines will speak like this.  


“No,” Harold says precisely. “They won’t.”  


Harold is bullied each year from September until late in October. A new crowd every time. And when October comes they realise what advantages he holds; realise that a kid that everyone looks at but nobody sees can go places that no one should. Harold knows how machines work, and a lock is one of the very simplest, and forgery is second nature to a kid with artist’s - with _engineer’s_ hands.  


“I don’t need you,” he tells the new kid, “I have ways to deal with them. I didn’t ask for your help.” It’s probably lacking in some social nuance, but blunt tools are effective for breaking things.  


“Guess not,” the new kid says. His face is impossible to read in the dying light, but his voice doesn’t sound like Harold expected it would. And he’d be sorrier, only he’s caught the new kid looking, at times, and he’s worried the new kid might _see_.  


He nods tightly, and tucks his bag in close to his chest, and hurries towards the dusty road home. He’d turn back to check only he knows, somehow, that the new kid’s still watching, feels it along with the last stain of sunlight gently heating the back of his neck.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [so I’ve just decided that what I desperately, desperately want in PoI fic is a ridiculously long, ridiculously slow build military brat/farm boy canon!AU, in which Harold is isolated and so intelligent and so penned in and bullied, and John is angry and rebellious and still embarrassingly white-knighty, and Harold resents him horribly for the rescues, and the _pity_ , only it’s really not that at all.  
> *sighs*
> 
> But yeah, that’s what this one’s about, I guess. Maybe I'll think on it some more.]


	6. I'll Most Likely Kill You in the Morning

The days and weeks are insignificant; the minutes and hours between guards changes and the subtleties of variance in length of stride are all that matters. It’s easy enough to distinguish between the prisoners - they all carry their pain in different ways - but he slowly gets to know the guard steps too, to know what to expect from the day.  


This morning’s echoes listed a little to the left, carried their weight on the balls of their feet: deprivation with accusations of treason for spice. He goes into these shifts grateful for the break from the pain; he leaves them willing to swap five minutes as a punching bag for a sip of damn water. (His wishes are always granted, come morning.)

He’s so accustomed now to routine that the silence, only a few minutes too long, makes all the hair rise on the back of his neck. Closer to the door gives up what little cover he has access to but offers the chance for quicker reactions and the illusion that somehow those few feet will make a difference in hearing what’s coming.  


The gentle shuffle, lopsided and halting, he’s never heard without the accompaniment of heavy footsteps and the gentle clinking of chains. It’s enough of a break that he almost doesn’t react when it comes to a halt in front of his door.  


_Almost_.  


The gentle beep of a key card and the door is pushed hesitantly open - he grabs the edge of it and _yanks_ , pulling the man off balance into the room. The guy’s reflexes are practically non-existent and it’s too easy to haul him to the wall, pin him against it with an arm across his neck.  


“I’m sorry,” the man babbles, “I’m so sorry,” his watery eyes blinking rapidly and his hands futilely pulling at the arm rapidly cutting off his air. Easing up the pressure doesn’t feel like too much of a risk - the man’s outweighed by a hell of a lot, practically all of it muscle.  


“Sorry for what?” he asks; he’d have expected pleas, maybe.  


“I’m sorry your number came up, I didn’t - ”

He instantly stiffens. That was how they’d put it too, those exact words murmured in his ear as whisper-thin steel slid into the side of his neck, Kara’s smirking face the last thing he saw.  


His arm tightens against the man’s throat for a moment before he loosens it, lets the man drop to his feet. They’re dressed in the same off-color boilersuits, and the signs of systematic malnourishment, mistreatment aren’t so easy to fake. He doesn’t see it as trust; it’s more like a stay of execution.  


“We have seventeen minutes,” the man says precisely, making no sudden movements, not even to rub at the place where bruises will rise on his neck. “You’ll forgive me, I hope, if we save introductions for after.”  


There’s another open door across from his. Same bare walls, same bare-framed bed, and incongruously a desk and impressive computer array, cursor still blinking.  


“Sixteen minutes,” the man says impatiently.  


“All right, Jailbird,” John says. “But don’t think this means we’re friends.”  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another snippet of something rather than an actual ficlet, sorry


	7. Relieved Kisses

There was a blur of motion in his peripheral vision and then John’s hand, warm and hard against the back of his neck. The sound itself was somewhat underwhelming, a snapping sort of crack and a fizzle of sparks that had him flinching backward just in time to be hauled out of his chair by John. (Even in his desperation, his blank-eyed steel-jawed determination, of course he still took care with how he pulled Harold to the floor.)

“My - oh,” Harold said, because the hovering red point of light was, of course, important, but what it hovered on was the cracked screen of a monitor and Harold took that rather personally.

“Stay here,” John said, and then he inserted his head between Harold and the poor broken computer and said it again. “Stay _here_.” His face was folded into the very worst sort of lines, the ones that spoke of, yes, anger and focus and all that sort of - but also _hurt_ , coded clearly in his pallor and the whites of his eyes. 

“Yes,” Harold said, because it was only ever in this that his resources were limited but he would still do just about anything to make that hurt go away. “Yes, of course.”

And of course, (because of _course_ ), he didn’t. He waited long enough for the tiny red dot to cease its malevolent hovering with an abrupt upward jerk, and then he crawled across the floor to carefully unplug and unscrew and begin the delicate work of salvage. The anti-static wristband had always somehow had the power of making the world go away, and he was startled to be pulled away from the guts of his computers by a firm hand on his shoulder.

“ _Harold_ ,” John said, despairing, and Harold hastened to reassure.

“I’m fine,” he said, quickly, “of course I’m fine, you always make sure I’m fine, John, you -”

And the hand to John’s face hadn’t actually been a conscious - except _of course_ , of course this was what they should, what they _always_ should -

The faint noise in the back of John’s throat was unfamiliar but so very, very easy to interpret. Harold pushed himself forward on his knees, neck craned in a way that would be uncomfortable soon enough but was of no importance whatsoever against the gentle brush of John’s lips against his. And then (of course) John pulled away for a moment’s delicate movement and leaned in again at an angle that was perfect, that would allow Harold to kiss John for precisely so long as the both of them could wish. Harold wasn’t sure such a thing could be measured.

When John eventually pulled away - against, Harold would like it on record, _strenuous_ protest - he was faintly flushed and dark of pupil, his mouth curling into a beautiful smile.

“You kissed me,” he said, teasing somehow and pleased.

“Well,” Harold said, “you did save my life.”

John brought one large hand up to cradle Harold’s face, his expression folded into lines that were entirely new.

“Of course,” he said.


End file.
